


Letters in the Attic

by never_going_home



Series: for the love of a princess [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, and gwen is the the prince, anhora makes an appearance, but its cool and it fits the prompt, he and merlin used to meet up every tuesday, i wrote this a year ago, in which merlin places the curse, morgana's magic is revealed, prior to the beginning of the story, so there is that, the knight in shining armour if you will, this is the sleeping beauty that nobody wanted, to drink tea anhora magicked in from the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_going_home/pseuds/never_going_home
Summary: Week 3 @gwenfest: Meet-Cute (Fairy Tale)They say that Emrys, sorcerer of old, was spurned by the Prince of Camelot. They say that in a rage, he cursed the city of Camelot to sleep, just as it was the first time he saved the Prince's life. Just revenge, some say. Others tell of how the Prince killed his one true love. They say he cast an enchantment that forever froze the city in time, then drowned himself in a lake. They say there was a beautiful princess locked in a tower, doomed to be set apart from mankind forever (because sometimes stories can get things wrong).Ultimately, the stories are all the same. But not true, obviously.And yet they say that the ancient kingdom, lost in the mists of time, can still be found, if only you know how.And they say the old hermit of the village, Myrddin, was there when it all began.
Relationships: Anhora & Gwen, Anhora & Merlin, Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: for the love of a princess [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119797
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Letters in the Attic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao this is tiny sorry

_Dear Morgana,_

_Today is my eleventh name-day. Why can’t I see you anymore? Father says you’re very sick with an ‘incurable disease’. Is it catching? Is that why you must be locked away? I don’t think he was telling the truth. When will you come out of your tower?_

_Sir Geoffrey showed me a painting of Mother. She was very pretty. I think I look like her. I asked Father why no one talks about her. It’s been years since I asked him last. He sent me to my rooms. I forgot how angry he gets whenever she’s mentioned. Did you know her? I wish I did. Sir Leon said she died when I was born. I wish people would tell me things about her. All they say was ‘she was very brave’ and ‘we shall remember her fondly’, if they talk about her at all._

_I still miss you._

_Arthur_

Morgana le Fay rubbed the parchment of Arthur’s letter in her fingers. She herself had stacks of it, to write and sketch as she pleased. And… that was it. A pallet and parchment and sticks of charcoal, such as would be given to a child first learning her letters. A few books, and a small barred window, five men high and hopelessly out of reach. A chamber pot in the corner. Nothing particularly heavy. Nothing overtly sharp. Nothing dangerous. Nothing she could use to break out of this small circle of a room, perched atop a tower.

Around her wrists sat two identical iron bracelets, more akin to shackles. They stung like acid, but left no mark, except perhaps on her soul. And they curbed her magic, the magic she didn’t even know she had possessed. It made her feel slow, dull. Sluggish. If sorcery was taught, Morgana wondered where she had learnt it. She wondered why. Sighing, she reached a hand out, wincing as the cuff moved and found a hitherto untouched patch of skin to torment, and took up charcoal stick to pen the first of many letters.

_Arthur,_

_Joyous name-day. Enclosed is a present; I hope you like it._

Sagarinn ór sigrið ok njal, The Saga of Sigrid and Njal. One of her prized books, written in the original Norse (Which was, as far as she knew, a language Arthur had not hitherto studied). Something he could work on, then. If she had been able to translate it, so could he.

_Your father is telling the truth; I am very ill with a disease of the mind that will eventually lead to death. Sometimes people are burned for it. Or hanged. And yes, it is contagious. It is feared that prolonged contact with people spreads this sickness, and so I must be ‘locked away.’_

Well, that was true, at least. Had not Uther ranted endlessly on how magic corrupted the head and ensnared the soul? Had she not been forced to witness so many executions?

_I did know your mother, briefly. After my own died, my father would bring me to visit yours. They were the closest of friends, and perhaps closer. Brothers, even if only in arms. If you so wish it, I can tell you things about the queen, though my memories of her do not number many. But I feel it will be more than most._

_I miss you as well, and there is little within my room to break my monotony but parchment and pen. It can become very lonely at times, and I long for company, but one must always find good in a bad situations; my sketches improved dramatically since I moved here, and you will find also within the letter a most riveting study of my breakfast this morning. At least I like apples. The gruel, however, leaves something to be desired, and, once it has made the trip up the several flights of stairs, is delivered quite cold._

_I hope you are getting on with your studies – I know how you like to hide away in certain places_ _from your tutors. If you avoid your learning, I shall accidently mention in a future letter your favourite places of concealment. It wouldn’t do to have a daft king, would it? I must also warn you to be careful with the information you contain within these notes. I was told that everything that leaves or enters my tower will be rigorously checked and, in the case of books and letters and other such written word, read. Beware, o prince, of worms that will use anything against you to further their own gains._

_Morgana le Fay_

_P.S. Can you read Norse?_

She folded the letter, then knocked on her door. The be-helmed face of one of her guards filled the small grating, suspicious as always. Morgana rolled her eyes.

“I need you to seal this letter,” she said, thrusting it unceremoniously through the hatch her meals came through. The guard sneered.

“Can’t you do it yourself, princess?”

“No, because my sealing candle happens to be in a sack of my possessions on the other side of the door. Do it _now,_ Elias, or I shall turn you into a… toad.”

“You can’t do that!” He protested. Morgana smiled sweetly at him.

“Can’t I?” Elias disappeared rather rapidly from view, and after some rustling that indicated he’d done the perfunctory check, the letter was returned to her. She pressed her seal ring (made from iron, everything was made from iron now) into the still-cooling wax, smiling sadly for a moment at the crest of her house. Morgana rapped on the door again.

“Have this delivered to Prince Arthur,” she instructed, pushing both letter and book through to the guard.

“‘Ere,” said Elias, poking the cover with one finger, “What’s this then?”

“The prince’s name-day gift. Surely you wouldn’t expect me to neglect such a thing?” She looked at him, frowning. “You _did_ read the letter, didn’t you?” 

“Well, yes, of, course, uh, I-” He rallied himself in a valiant effort. “It will have to be checked with the royal librarian before it is gifted to the prince, to ensure there’s no _funny business_. _”_ He wiggled his eyebrows in a way that suggested she would try and escape as soon as look him.

(He wasn’t entirely wrong, but she would never tell him, would never dare. Sooner or later, Uther found out anything.)

“Oh, Elias?”

“Aye?” He answered cautiously.

“Tell the king I want a dressmaker in here.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

But no one came.

*

Winter came, a companion whose company was not welcome. A companion who whistled like a lover, then snarled like a lover, then bit and tore like words that were thrown in spite and never taken back.

It was cold. Cold, colder than any winter she had ever seen. The snow was as yet untrampled and untrodden, as pure as a virgin’s virtue. Stone, she had discovered, was quite possibly the worst insulator to ever exist in the history of mankind. The only thing that kept her warm now were the letters from Arthur, for there was no fire and only a thin blanket, and only on the inside.

_Dear Morgana,_

_I wish to visit you, but Father says I’m not old enough. Will I ever be old enough?_

_I hope you are well. Father gave me a hound puppy as a gift for the new year. I have begun to translate your name-day present, although when I asked Sir Geoffrey for help, he smiled and tapped his nose._

_Do you know who the Fisher King is? Father says he has begun to sicken, and that we must try to conquer his lands while he is weak. I don’t think I liked his smile when he said that._

_I hope the new year brings better gifts to you. I still miss you._

_Arthur_

Morgana held the crackling parchment to her chest, breathing deeply. (Not too deeply, though; the air in here was sharper than knives today, and it bit through the material of her dress like it was nothing.) She had begun to suspect that Arthur was not at home with the written word, or, for that matter, any word at all. His writing was cramped and uncertain, most words misspelled in some way or another. His letters were blunt, and to the point, his script even more so.

Morgana revelled in words, fascinated in the ways she could twist them to ensnare minds and bewitch souls, or inspire fiery passion and desire, the words she wrote swooping and indelible upon the page.

A raven cawed outside her window, startling Morgana out of her thoughts. She seated herself on the pallet and bent forward, resting the parchment of the floor as she began to write.

_Arthur,_

_If there is anything I have learnt, adults will tell you that you aren't old enough to know, aren’t old enough to understand. Eventually you will be, although then you still might not understand. It’s very vexing._ _I am alone, as always, although winter has a bite to it at the top of the tower. I have only one blanket to guard against the chill, but that is of little matter._

Morgana paused, tapping her lips with her fingers thoughtfully. Arthur had requested she tell him about his mother, a fact per letter. Suddenly, she grinned.

 _Ygraine (Heaven keep her soul) both hated and adored winter. She would be excited for weeks before even the first frosts, but as soon as it started to snow, she would grumble about the ‘bloody cold’ and retreat to her chambers beneath numerous quilts with a tankard (an actual_ tankard) _filled with spiced milk. It used to drive Uther mad, and he was forever telling her to pick a side, to like it or loathe it. She ignored him, naturally._

_The Fisher King, if I recall, rules a haven safe for those who practise magic, and he himself is a sorcerer. Your father has long despised him, although he had not, as yet, declared open war, although the reason for this I know not._

Morgana finished the letter, gave it to the guard on duty to seal, and sat at her desk, staring at nothing. She started at the sound of a heavy key turning in its lock. The King had come to visit, although their meeting was short.

“If you give up magic you may live freely again,” he told her.

“I know not how,” she had replied. This was met with a rather terse comment about rotting there for the rest of her life, or until she saw the error in her ways. The winter grew worse, until her lips were blue and her fingers numb.

Arthur's next letter was accompanied by a stack of blankets, but still no one came.

*

_The Fisher King is dead._

The words, spoken by every person in Camelot had even reached Morgana, locked in her recluse tower.

_The Fisher King is dead._

_No, he’s dying. Sick, I heard._

_The Fisher King was never human. Just a demon sorcerer._

_The Fisher King will live forever. He has magic. It is within his power._

And her last hope for living a normal, free life ever again died with him. The guard who gave her the daily bucket of water to wash in seemed worried. The guard who brought in the midday meal was excited. The guard who was her favourite, was the kindest, quietly apologised.

_I’m sorry._

Too often had those empty words been spoken to Morgana.

_I’m sorry, but your mother is dead._

_Your father has been killed in battle. You have our condolences._

_This is for your own good, Morgana. I’m sorry you were swayed to magic._

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Words as hollow as a witch's heart that echo and rebound as though it was carved in the stone of people's minds.

_I’m sorry._

_*_

Uther returned near the time of the Winter Solstice with a gift. A thin bracelet wrought like filigree, an apology, a plea.

Uther entered her tower with a gift made of iron, a crown of thorns for Christ, and kinder words upon his tongue. It would be the greatest thing she would own now, if she could’ve known it. (Uther believed that a simple life would drive the magic away, as if a pallet and apples and gruel could take her magic, as if words could tear her heart from her flesh, her marrow from her bones, her soul from her skin. Uther was a fool.)

But Morgana tossed and turned fitfully on her pallet and did not hear him. The colours of her vision were too bright and dim and far-off all at once, and there were figures of people long-dead that spoke to her, calling her name. A cough, harsh and racking held her lungs like fear held her head.

The physician was summoned, and a wonder he was not ashes and memory.

Gaius, who had healed cuts and scratches.

Gaius, who saved a dead man walking.

Gaius, who had _lied._

Liar liar, pants on fire, but he swore allegiance to the king and can’t burn now.

Gaius, who gave her tonics for her nightmares and told her they were just dreams, Gaius, who had soothed her fears, Gaius, who had _lied._

_Beware the worms that will turn against you to further their own gains._

Gaius, who had told the truth, who had turned her in to the Witchfinder. Gaius, who had sacrificed her to save himself.

_Blood and the marble floor and tears in the blood and the Witchfinder's dead, but so is she, and Uther hates her now, and she want her father, wants him here, wants to be far away, wants this to have never have happened, wants it to be a dream-_

But dreams are what hurt her. They didn’t bother her now, not with the cuffs, but perhaps it was better to stay awake than to sleep and dream, to sleep and see nothing.

When the world returned, there was a boy outside the door. He was taller than she remembered, sandy hair covering soft blue eyes and two gaps in his smile where teeth would grow.

He was just tall enough for her to see his crown, and him to see her eyes, and they intertwined fingers through the bars of the grate like long-lost lovers, if a lover was like a brother and nothing more, a child tainted by the words of his father that seeped like poison into his heart.

“You almost died,” he said softly, before any greeting, before any blessing, and the quiet words cut Morgana to the bone.

“Yes,” she agreed. They stood in silence, Morgana resting her head against the door and Arthur gazing up at her with... pity. But Morgana had been so desperate for human company, to talk to someone that wasn’t a wall or a bird, that she drank in his words hungrily, like a desert travelling finding water in the last days before death.

“Was that the sickness?” Arthur asked, hesitantly.

“No.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. And she was fourteen, she must be strong, she must be an example to Arthur, for all that she wanted to break down this door that burned her and embrace the boy-like-brother and cry like a newly-swaddled babe.

“Does Uth- the king know where you are?”

“No. I snuck out.”

“Then sneak back again. These guards, they shall not tell.” Morgana kissed the pads of her fingers butterfly-light, pressing it to the back of Arthur's fingers that rested curled around the bars of the grate. He rested his fingers solemnly against his forehead, completing the gesture where she could not. A perfect little soldier-boy, trained to fight, trained to kill, a soldier-boy too old for his years and too young all at once.

A perfect little soldier-boy, trained to kill her.

(Not yet, he will not kill her yet. It will be loneliness, and madness, and perhaps it will be done out of pity. The same pity with which he looks for her. She doesn’t think Arthur will kill her out of spite, but perhaps it will be done out of pity. And that was perhaps the worse death of all, slain by the hand that loved you, and all for pity.)


End file.
